


Now is the Winter of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Drama, Ethan Gold Bashing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2006-07-03
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian found out that Justin was being beaten by Ethan Gold two months, three weeks and five days after Justin walked out on him on the fiddler’s arm at Babylon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

**1**  
  
Brian found out that Justin was being beaten by Ethan Gold two months, three weeks and five days after Justin walked out on him on the fiddler’s arm at Babylon.

Here’s how it happened:   
  
He and Michael had been sitting at a table in a shadowed and smoky corner at Woody’s bar sharing a quiet drink when Michael had suddenly broken the pensive silence and blurted out, “I think Ethan’s been beating Justin.”   
  
Brian’s first reaction was instant and total denial. “No,” he said.   
  
Michael shot Brian an incredulous look. “What do you mean, _no_? I’m telling you I think Ethan’s been beating Justin.”   
  
“And _I’m_ telling _you_ , no. Justin would never let anyone do that to him much less that rat-chinned, pussy-licking, faggot.” Brian tilted his head back and let a long plume of smoke stream out from between his lips. “I’d say your imagination’s working double overtime.”   
  
Michael didn’t let it go at that though he knew from Brian’s tone that had been his intention. But he finally gave up, discouraged by Brian’s continued resistance.

* * *

Brian saw Justin the next day at the diner. They greeted each other as they typically did.   
  
“Justin,” said Brian in his usual wry tone as he slid his stylish sunglasses off his face and tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat.   
  
“Hi, Brian,” said Justin, his usual sunny smile firmly in place. “Coffee?”   
  
“Yeah. And make it a quick one. I’m in a hurry.”   
  
Justin rolled his eyes. “When are you ever not?”   
  
Brian watched Justin closely as he walked away and studied him as he filled a Styrofoam cup with steaming, hot coffee. The boy’s step had its ever present spring, his ample backside swaying behind him, and his hands were sure and quick as he stirred in milk and sugar as he knew Brian liked.   
  
Justin snapped a lid onto the cup and looked up at Brian to indicate his coffee was ready.   
  
Brian drummed his fingers impatiently against the counter as Justin rung him up and took his first sip of the pungent liquid, scalding his tongue as he did so. “Shit!” he hissed quietly, under his breath.   
  
Justin heard and looked up, then smiled slightly and shook his head. “Masochist,” he muttered in somewhat fond amusement at Brian’s daily ritual - which involved Brian's apparent need to cauterize his tongue for some reason.   
  
“As you should well know,” Brian archly replied, smirking as he accepted his change, pocketing it. His not-smile slipped, however, when the sleeve of Justin’s right arm slid up, revealing a nasty-looking, yellowing bruise underneath the edge of the sleeve's cuff. “What’s this!” he demanded with quiet intent, seizing Justin’s arm as he did so. He drew the arm closer, sliding the sleeve further up, and inspected the bruise as if he could make out its origin by shape, size and color.   
  
“Nothing,” Justin replied, tugging his arm from Brian’s grasp. “I banged it against one of my canvases at school.”   
  
“Really,” Brian intoned, lifting an inquiring brow. He met Justin’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “I didn’t know painting was such a hazardous occupation.”   
  
Justin’s eyes shifted away. “Yeah, well. It is when you’re being as careless as I was.”   
  
Brian made a grunting sound. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”   
  
Justin murmured an apparent agreement.   
  
Brian lifted his cup in a wordless adieu and took his leave of Justin, striding out of the diner with the same, easy manner with which he’d walked in. He slid his car keys out of his pocket and listened for the shrill _chirp_ , _chirp_ as the locks and alarm disengaged. He folded his tall frame behind the wheel and carefully put the cup into the cup holder. After clicking his seatbelt into place, he slid a Camel Light out its box and slipped it between his lips. With well-practiced motions, he leaned over, retrieving a burnished, silver lighter from the glove compartment and lit the cigarette, making sure to crack the window open a bit. He let the smoke burn his lungs for a few seconds before he slid the key into the ignition, flicked the indicator on and slid out into the start and stop flow of Pittsburgh’s morning traffic.   
  
Brian had driven for several blocks before a throbbing ache registered along his senses. He glanced down; his hands were clenched around the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles left a bone-white impression under his skin.   
  
It took some doing but he finally loosened his grip.   
  
_I think Ethan’s been beating Justin_.   
  
Brian’s first reaction had been instant and total denial.   
  
His second was Rage.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**   
  
Brian had a busy day at work.   
  
He attended a nine o’clock staff meeting, presented mock ads to a baby wipes company, and at noon drove to Harry’s, an upscale restaurant located in the newly gentrified downtown area, to schmooze and mingle with prospective clients at a business luncheon.   
  
Satisfying his long-standing credo of mixing business with pleasure, he had a quick, fumbling fuck with a client rep in a stall of the restaurant’s men’s room and then went on to arrange meetings with two others before the luncheon came to an end.   
  
He drove back to the office and after giving Cynthia directions to leave him undisturbed for the remainder of the afternoon he went into his office, firmly closed the door behind him, and spent the next hour reading up and making notes on a proposal for a new ad.   
  
As he ran his eyes over the lines of the pages, his thoughts returned, unintentionally, to this morning's drive to work.   
  
_I think Ethan’s been beating Justin._   
  
Mikey’s words, spoken less than twenty-four hours ago, had seemed to take on a life of their own, filling up the empty spaces of the jeep – whilst stuck on repeat – inciting within Brian an urgent desire to turn the jeep around, find the fiddle playing prick and beat the ever loving shit out of him with his precious fiddle and tie him up with its strings.   
  
Just as he’d been about to give into his violent impulses, reason and doubt had started to creep into his mind.   
  
What if Mikey was wrong? Brian had thought to himself. His best friend wasn’t exactly what one would call a reliable source of information.   
  
And anyway, what business was it of his, Brian, if things were less than rosy on the domestic front for Justin and his fiddle-playing lothario? Justin had made his choice – quite publicly – months ago and he hadn’t once looked back or seemed to regret his decision.  At all.  
  
This final thought had firmed Brian’s resolve to stay away from Justin and out of his affairs. He had pressed onwards to work, wondering all the while if the comic book, _Rage_ , had finally infected his mind with its inherent proselytizing of do-gooding superheros.

Returning to the present, Brian realized he’d been reading the same sentence over and over for the past twenty minutes, and he finally threw the sheaf of papers down onto his desk in disgust. He powered down his computer, collected his coat, keys and briefcase and – with a brisk “see you later” tossed in Cynthia’s direction – stalked out of the office, out the building and into the chill afternoon air of another one of Pittsburgh’s fine, fall days.   
  
It was time to hit the baths.   
  


* * *

It was a few weeks later – a weeknight. And Brian was in his loft having passed on Mikey’s invitation to go to Babylon that night. Dressed in worn blue jeans and a black wife-beater, he sat hunched over at his desk, in front of the computer, as he went over the final details of a presentation he was scheduled to give in the morning.   
  
He was wholly absorbed in his reading when the sudden ringing of the buzzer broke his concentration.   
  
He made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, and threw down the pen he’d been making notations with onto the cluttered desk. “Fuck! What now?” he muttered. He got up from his chair, walked to the intercom and pressed it. “Yeah?”   
  
“It’s me…can I come up?”   
  
Brian frowned, puzzled. “Justin?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Brian wordlessly pressed the release for the outer door and moved to slide open the loft door. Having done so, he padded into the living room and flopped wearily into the cushy, white chair and clicked on the TV with the remote that’d been left lying on its seat. He suspected he’d need the distraction.   
  
He listened to the creak of the elevator as it rode up to his floor. Finally, the sound of Justin’s entrance into the loft reached his ears. He looked over his shoulder at Justin as the blond slid the door shut.   
  
“Hey,” he said.   
  
Justin shrugged a blue knapsack off his shoulders and rested it on the floor by the door. “Hey,” he replied, raising his eyes up to greet Brian. He slid his hands into the back pocket of his jeans, looking unsure and uncomfortable.   
  
“Want a beer?”   
  
Justin shrugged. “Sure.”   
  
Brian made a gesturing motion toward the fridge. “You know where it is. Help yourself.”   
  
“Thanks,” said Justin as he moved to the fridge. He opened the door and retrieved a bottle. “You want one?”   
  
Brian had returned his attention to the images on the television, so he turned his head around again. Justin was holding his bottle aloft, questioningly. “Yeah, alright. Bring me one.”  
  
Justin drew another bottle out of the fridge and shut the door with his hip. “Here,” he said, as he drew near to Brian.   
  
Brian looked up at Justin and accepted the bottle. “Thanks.” He took a sip.   
  
“You’re welcome,” Justin said lowering himself into the chair across from Brian. “So…what’re you watching?”   
  
“I’m not sure.” Brian lifted his brows and looked at Justin. He decided to skip what was sure to be endless minutes of banal bantering. “What’re you doing here?”   
  
“Oh!” A look of distress came over Justin’s face. “I’m sorry…I…I didn’t think.” He looked at Brian’s interrupted work. “You’re busy.” He moved to get up. “I’m sorry.”   
  
Brian huffed out an impatient breath. “Justin, sit the fuck down. You’re fucking making me nervous with all that twitching you're doing.”   
  
Justin sat, but still looked disturbed. “You’re busy,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”   
  
Brian scowled, annoyed. “Justin, will you quit it. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”   
  
Justin looked down, fiddling with the label on the bottle of beer. “I…nothing…” His voice trailed off.   
  
Brian heard the tears in Justin’s voice, and he looked sharply at the boy – his ex-whatever, the low light of the lamp casting a warm glow atop Justin’s bent head. “Justin…” He saw Justin’s jaw begin to quiver. “Justin…” he began again, helplessly. He heard a sniffle and saw Justin’s hand come up to wipe at the tears that had begun rolling down his cheeks. He sighed. “Jesus.”   
  
A choked sob shook Justin’s shoulders. He looked up, blue eyes opened wide – glistening wetly with tears, the whites of them streaked with red. He made to stand up again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured lowly in a quavering voice. “I shouldn’t have come.”   
  
Brian put his beer bottle carefully down onto the end table beside his chair and stood up. He crossed over to Justin and pressed gently down on his shoulders. “Sit,” he said firmly.   
  
Justin sat.   
  
Brian crouched down in front of him, his forearms on the armrests on either side of Justin. He peered up into Justin’s face, which was turned down. “Justin,” he said softly. “Look at me.”   
  
Justin stubbornly kept his gaze averted, breathing heavily through his nose, the noise of suppressed tears coming from his throat.   
  
Brian studied Justin for a moment. Misery poured off the boy in waves. “Justin,” he tried again. “What happened?” His hands tightened into fists on the armrests. “Did…did someone hurt you?”   
  
Justin lifted his head, startled. “What? No…”   
  
Brian narrowed his eyes. “Then…?”   
  
Justin averted his gaze, wordlessly.   
  
Brian made an impatient sound. “Justin, what the fuck is it? My knees are fucking killing me, here.”  
  
Justin's head snapped up, and Brian only had a brief impression of distressed blue eyes before the blond jumped up suddenly from his chair. Brian had scarcely a chance to leap out of the way to avoid a collision. He rose quickly to his feet and warily followed the agitated blond into the kitchen.   
  
Justin rested his still full bottle of beer on the counter. He looked up in to the other man’s face. “Look…uh, Brian.” He seemed unable to fully meet Brian’s probing gaze. “I’m sorry about all this.” A sheepish expression crossed his face. “I don’t know what came over me.” His movements were abrupt and jerking as he plucked lemons out of a bowl and lined them neatly on the counter until he suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and stilled his fingers. “I’ll go now.” He turned around and bent over to retrieve his bag.   
  
Brian spoke in a low voice from behind Justin. “You’re not leaving until you tell me what the fuck just happened, Justin.”   
  
Justin turned around, clutching his bag to his chest. He pasted on a smile. “Brian…” he began to say in a placating manner. “Listen…”  
  
Brian shot out his arm, gripping Justin’s shoulder tightly to hold Justin in place. He felt Justin flinch under his hand and saw him wince. Brian narrowed his gaze. “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”   
  
Justin wrenched his shoulder away. He seemed suddenly angry. “Nothing!”   
  
Brian lifted his brows. “Nothing? Well you won’t mind if I take a look at it then.”   
  
Justin’s blue eyes widened. “No!”   
  
“Take off your shirt and let me see,” Brian insisted.   
  
“I said, no, Brian!”   
  
Brian leaned into the other man, his gaze sharply focused on him. “Why not, Justin?” he asked almost tauntingly. “Why so suddenly modest? I’m not asking for full disclosure. You just have to take off your shirt.”   
  
Justin’s face flushed a dull red. “Fuck off!” he cried, backing away Brian.   
  
“No, you fuck off!” Brian was suddenly angry. “What’re you going to tell me this time? Have you met with another painting accident?” He was shouting now. “Take off your shirt, Justin! And let me see! Now!”   
  
“No!” Justin looked at Brian accusingly. “I know what this is about. I know what you're thinking."  
  
“You couldn't _possibly_ know what I'm thinking,” Brian said his voice tinged with bitterness and layered with meaning.   
  
“Fuck you, Brian! I _do_ know!"  
  
Brian lifted his brows. " _Really_? Do tell."  
  
"You think -"  
  
"Yes?" Brian drawled with false nonchalance.  
  
"You think...you think..." Here Justin seemed to have some difficulty before the words rushed out. "You think Ethan's been beating on me or something."  
  
Brian squarely met Justin's belligerant gaze. "Or something."  
  
"Well, fuck you! Do you really think I’m such a wimpy faggot that I’d let him - or anyone - start knocking me around? Why would I do that, Brian?”  
  
Brian folded his arms. “I don’t know, Justin. You tell me.”   
  
Justin opened his mouth to answer and then stopped. He seemed unable to speak, all the defiance drained out of him. “You’re wrong,” he insisted, quietly. "Okay, Brian? _Wrong_.”   
  
“Okay, Justin,” Brian agreed quietly. “I'm wrong,”   
  
He started slowly backing away. “I'm sorry for…you know…getting all...you know.” Justin made a helpless gesture back in the direction of the living room area, where they'd just been sitting. He smiled tremulously at Brian and then turned around, slid open the door and slipped through, leaving as abruptly as he’d arrived.   
  
Brian remained standing, staring at the closed door long after the creaking of the elevator had stopped.  



End file.
